Face The Wall
by Albino Magpie
Summary: Ivan Braginski is a violinist whose career is threatened by a bone disease, Alfred Jones is the doctor assigned to treat him. But the artist's real problems go far deeper than his bones.
1. Hero Complex

His pager's electronic ring broke Dr. Alfred Jones away from the book he'd curled up with in the break room. Glancing down, he noticed it was a message from his boss, and quite an urgent one at that. He was immediately expected in the office. Considering the amount of patience Dr. Kirkland possessed(none, especially not with him), he'd have to hurry.

Getting up, he stretched his arms over his head to loosen some of the tension in his back and tried to adjust his hair and glasses a little. Making his way to the office, he dodged the hundreds of agitated people hurrying past him, always the case in a hospital. Before he entered the office, he tried to make himself a little more presentable, but quickly gave up on it. It wasn't like the state of his hair really mattered.

„Afternoon, boss." he said easily, entering the spacious room. He and Dr. Kirkland had known each other long enough for some familiarity to settle in.

„Good afternoon, Dr. Jones. You don't have time to sit down, because I'm briefing you for your second assignment as a stationary house call doctor. And yes, you _are _going to take this case, if only because this patient is a very important figure in New York's culture network," he paused to rifle through the papers on his desk and unearthed a folder of patient's records, „and extremely influential people have hinted there could be a big donation in for us if we cure him."

Alfred listened numbly to the slew of words. Being subjected to a high-speed rant was normal when you worked under Dr. Kirkland, and worrying about the moral gray-area of taking a case because of donations was useless, considering that, in Dr. Kirkland's own words „All the money we receive goes towards saving people's lives.".

And a new car every once in a while. But most of it was about saving people.

„Okay," he said, not about to argue with someone who was responsible for his career climb and could be just as responsible for his fall. Besides, the case might prove interesting, „what exactly am I treating?"

„The patient's condition is a periostitis of the radial thyphoid, affecting the left arm. It was diagnosed fairly early, so the chance of full healing is about 70%, provided he gets enough rest and the proper treatment. And your job is to supervise that treatment from the patient's home, make _absolutely sure _he doesn't use his arm, and aim for regaining the full mobility."

Alfred hissed through his teeth. „Bah. That can be really painful. Is the patient already informed he'll have a doctor staying with him?"

„Yes, he is. He won't be leaving home, of course, so he has also employed a housekeeper."

„Allright. So, what's his name, then?"

Dr. Kirkland raised his brows – which looked quite impressive in his case – and fixed him with an odd look.

„His name is Ivan Braginski."

Alfred stared at his boss in mute disbelief. Of course he trusted himself to treat an early-diagnosed case of periostitis, but...

„_The _Ivan Braginski? The most promising violinist of the Orpheus Chamber Orchestra, and you want me to treat his arm?"

_He definitely wasn't lying when he said there was a donation in for us... _

„The very same, I'm surprised you even know who he is, though," he added under his breath"So, will you or won't you take him as your patient?"

Alfred was a bit offended. He might look more like Christina Aguilera concerts than orchestras, but it was unfair of his boss to assume he had no real culture. Well, that ought to surprise him, then.

He remembered the violinist quite clearly, from a concert that he'd visited. A fair-haired young man with broad shoulders and an odd eye color he'd noticed even from his seat. The Russian-born man had a lot of talent, that was certain.

„Sure I'll do it. When do I start?"

„Yesterday would be favorite. Go home, pack your things and call me so I can tell you where he lives. You can read his records on subway, but there isn't anything else that's notable. And of course, I'll need your autograph, here." with that, he held out a contract. Alfred was already familiar with the new practice of living at a patient's, most often because they couldn't or wouldn't leave home or required supervision. He scanned over all the clauses and sub-clauses, noticing that his would-be patient had already signed his name, in the shaky letters of someone not quite familiar with the Latin alphabet. Alfred signed the document with a scribble that might or might not have been his name.

On returning home, he packed a week's worth of clothes and a washbag in a carry-all, along with other necessities. He was given the address of his new patient, and left for the apartment in a house in the suburbs.

The area was a nice one, several new apartment buildings surrounded by parks. Carry-all slung over his shoulder, Alfred made his way to a high building with yellow walls, and rang the doorbell. He was aware of the impersonal eye of a camera watching him. A voice cracked by static issued from a speaker.

"You would be the doctor, I expect?" The voice was surprisingly young, and slightly accented. Alfred affirmed that he was in fact the expected doctor.

"You will have to use the staircase, I fear. It seems that the elevator is out of order again."

Luckily, the violinist's apartment wasn't too high, but he was still breathing a little heavy when he reached the specified floor. He was just used to working elevators.

The door opened before he could ring, and he was met by his new patient, who looked quite different than he'd done on stage. For one thing, his arm was in a sling and he had a tired, bedraggled look about him. He was also much taller than Alfred remembered. He positively _towered_.

"Good afternoon, Doctor...?" he said, beckoning Alfred in with his good arm.

"Jones." Alfred said, looking around the apartment, tidy except for a mass of sheet music spread over every flat surface, giving the place the appearance of a snowstorm's aftermath.

Ivan followed his eyes, a slightly pained smile spreading over his face.

"Being unable to play, I have tried my remaining hand at composing. But my muse seems to have taken a temporary vacation," he sighed, and sat down on the couch heavily,"Hopefully temporary. I would offer you some tea, but it's horribly difficult with only one hand. Nadya should be coming by any minute now."

**A/N: **Periostitis is an inflammation of a layer surrounding the bone, and the radial thyphoid is a part of a bone in the forearm.  
Also, everything I know about medicine comes from wikipedia and House, so I apologize for potential fail.


	2. Anti Inflammatory

Nadya turned out to be a short, cheerful woman whose grasp of the English language was tentative at best. She bustled through the entire apartment, sorting the sheets of music into folders, making an enormous pot of tea and doing the dishes.

Ivan twitched at the sling around his arm irritably.

"I mustn't move it at all, so my last doctor forced me to keep it in a sling. Of course I want it to get better, but it's so _irritating_."

Being a general practitioner with a specialisation in orthopedics, Alfred was used to complaints like that.

"Must be tough, not being able to do what you like. But you can write with your right hand, so if you get inspired, you can pin it down."

Ivan sighed again, taking a sip from his black tea he had – to Alfred's horror – sweetened with a few spoonfuls of blackcurrant jam.

"If I was _able _to compose, I could. But inspiration won't come to me."

Alfred refrained from asking what exactly the sheets of music were, then. The minds of artists worked in a way quite different from most people, he knew. It was an odd to be treating someone whose career – and, if he'd read the Russian right, his happiness – depended on his recovery.

It was a huge responsibilty, but Alfred wouldn't have had it any other way.

Suddenly the violinist's pale face was lit by a smile again.

"But maybe I will be a little more inspired with you around. You seem a very interesting person, Doctor Jones."

The odd compliment took Alfred by surprise, but he figured it must have been a cultural difference. He wanted to reply that Ivan could call him by his first name if he liked, as he usually did, but strangely, he didn't mind being called "Doctor Jones" by the Russian. It must have had something to do with most people not taking him seriously because of his optimistic and truthfully rather tactless nature.

"I can say the same for you...can I call you Ivan? I saw you in concert once, and I was really stunned – I'm not so into classical music normally, but you made it sound really _alive_." he said. That was true, too. The performance had really blown him away.

From this close, Alfred could see that Ivan's eyes were actually of a bright violet shade, something he'd never seen before. They lit up as Ivan took in the compliment.

"Thank you, I'm very glad you liked my performance. I only hope that I will be able to perform again soon. And may you call me whatever you like."

Alfred took a sip of his own tea, and immediately regretted. The beverage was bitter as well as sickly sweet, and he supposed it was at least as potent as coffee. Speaking of coffee, he would have to get some. Tea had never really been a favorite of his.

He would have to talk about Ivan's condition and treatment later, but for now he decide to stick to a more pleasant subject.

"Would you mind telling me what you're working on? Maybe it'll help your inspiration if you tell someone about your ideas."

Alfred wasn't a master of tact, or poise for that matter, but that didn't mean he knew nothing about psychology. Most of the time, he just preferred to be honest instead of considerate. But he knew a fair bit about how people worked.

The Russian's expression grew a bit darker, most likely because he worried that either inspiration or use of his arm wouldn't return. But he was still glad to talk about his newest project with someone interested.

"I'm working on composing a few more modern pieces. They are inspired by some old diary entries of mine, from.." here he hesitated a litttle, his voice cracking the faintest bit,"..when I still lived in Moscow." He selected a sheet from the folder Nadya had put them in. It was covered with sheet music in the same shaky hand Alfred had seen before on the contract.

"This one...it's called _Noyabr –_ November. It's almost finished, but something, something's still missing."

He hummed a few bars of a soft melancholic melody, something that sounded familiar and alien all at once.

"What's Moscow like? I've never been." even as he said the words, Alfred wished he hadn't. There was something painful there, a bad memory, and he should've know better than to ask. He was really too tactless, sometimes.

Ivan stood up abruptly, supporting himself with his good arm. He made his way to the kitchen, brushing past Nadya who returned with a second pot of tea and made a face at his glum expression.

"C_hto sluchilosj?_"

Ivan indicated Alfred sitting at the coffee table, looking confused and apologetic.

"S_lishkom ljuboptny._" he said shortly, entering the kitchen and rummaging through the cupboards onehanded, by the sound of it. When he returned, it was with a bottle of expensive-looking vodka.

Alfred frowned.

"Hey," he said, half-heartedly attempting to take the bottle away from his patient,"I'm sorry if I made you mad, but as your doctor I can't allow you to drink that. You're on pain meds."

"I don't c-" Ivan started, but sighed and handed the bottle to Nadya, who had said something in Russian that had a distinctly berating sound to it. Then he took a sip of his fresh tea, and looked Alfred directly in the eyes, his gaze intense and burning.

"I do not care for talking about my time in Moscow. I left my home country for personal reasons, not for political ones, as you will without doubt assume."

Alfred held up his hands, palm-out, and tried for an apologetic smile.

"I'm sorry I upset you. I'm too tactless, I suppose."

Ivan's expression softened again. It was an amazing effect – he looked at least five years older when he was upset, and five years younger when he was smiling.

"You are just much too curious – that is what I told Nadya, what I suppose you would have asked next."

_Seem to have hit a sensitive topic. I wonder if I should bring up his arm _now_...he's already upset._

"I take it you have already read my records? Do you have any opinion or approach that is different from my former doctor?" Ivan asked, changing the subject and forestalling Alfred's question.

Alfred shook his head, and decided to get this discussion over with.

"I also think that a lot of rest and anti-inflammatory medication is our best bet."

"And I am glad to be taken care of personally. What are the odds on our best bet, though?"

"I'd say about seventy percent, maybe more, since you're young, don't have a history of past bone diseases and the condition was diagnosed early on."

Ivan seemed relieved at that, possibly because he'd expected worse odds. Then his mouth curved into a coy smile.

"You know, Doctor Jones...vodka is perfectly anti-inflammatory."

Alfred had to suppress a grin at the title, which sounded more like a nickname when the violinist said it.

"It doesn't go well with painkillers, though, unless you fancy a gastric lavage."

Ivan frowned.

"A gastric _what_? That sounds disgusting."

Alfred really had to grin at the childishly puzzled expression.

"It means getting your stomach pumped out. Most people are unconscious when it happens though, for obvious reasons. You've got no experience with that, then?"

"I happen to be perfectly able to handle vodka. I would have though stereotypes had informed you of that. It is really frustrating, though. I cannot move my arm, I cannot play, I cannot drink, there are a thousand things I cannot do."

Alfred put on his most reassuring face. Being optimistic was one of his major strengths.

"And it's my job to make sure you're able to do all that again soon."

This seemed to brighten Ivan's mood another little bit.

"Then, to your success and mine, let us raise-" here his face took on a dejected expression,"our teacups."

Deciding to show off his extremely limited Russian, Alfred replied;"_Vashe zdorovje!"_

"_Spasiba._" Ivan replied, raising his cup.

**A/N: **Chto sluchilosj?- What's wrong?/Slishkom ljuboptny.-Too curious./Vashe zdorovje!-To your health!/Spasibo.-Thank you.


End file.
